I am many things — the most vulnerable is writer
I am many things — wife, mother, accountant, book lover, feminist, gym rat, but none have I ever wanted to be as much as writer.
The trip has been long and bumpy to get here to this moment of penning an about me, the writer. I do have a degree in English Writing, but left behind any dreams of writing when depression, a young marriage, and the reality of student loan debt had me pivot to my other degree — accounting. Don’t worry, I’m not as “creative” when filing taxes as I am when writing a story.
I began writing again after one of those big moments in life when your very molecules rearrange: I became a mother. When I looked into my baby’s little face I questioned who I wanted to be, not just for him, but for me, too. I picked up my pen and I started writing consistently, as consistently as the mother of a young child and full-time career woman can. …
But not for the democracy he violated
I’m sure we’ve all seen the pictures from the insurrection at the Capitol on January 6th. Horrified, unable to look away, but not at all surprised, I was glued to the news. One photo stuck with me. It wasn’t the Confederate flag inside the Capitol, or the guys climbing the walls like spiders, or the man dressed like a bad extra from Braveheart. It was the photo of the guy with his feet up on Speaker of the House Nancy Pelosi’s desk.
The guy was supposedly there to see Trump speak and was “pushed” into the Capitol by the rioters. Who am I to question his story? Maybe this is indeed how he ended up in Pelosi’s office. But he was there, sat at the desk, put his dirty feet up, apparently bled on an envelope, took the envelope, and left behind a quarter in payment because he’s “not a thief.” I mean, the envelope is what he should feel morally obligated to, not that he was participating in insurrection or anything. …
The time I worked from home with my toddler and questioned everything I’ve ever done.
There have been one million articles about the effect of the pandemic on working mothers. This is another one.
I have read every one of these articles, saddened and empathetic to the plight of women put in impossible situations, many choosing to drop out of the workforce to care for children or not choosing at all and losing their job to the pandemic.
I’ve been lucky in that I have a pretty strong support network with my mom who can help with childcare and a daycare with enough procedures in place to make me feel comfortable during a pandemic. …
But it’s probably not what you think
An oddly ominous message is on my nearby Catholic Church’s roadside sign.
“Be watchful, be prepared for Christ’s second coming.”
As a lapsed Catholic, I know the “second coming” refers to Jesus returning to earth to judge everyone and those who are good believers will be rewarded, and those who aren’t, well, don’t get rewarded. Many believe this to be the apocalypse or the end of times. However, in the Church’s calendar, it is Advent which is typically a happy time in the church as parishioners prepare for the birth (the first) coming of Jesus. Look at everything that has evolved out of it: the presents, the trees, the lights, the songs. Typically we aren’t looking towards the second coming. …
A letter to my 18-year-old cousin
My dear cousin, you support Trump and now you can’t sleep because of the state of the world and what will happen to its citizens now that Trump is voted out of office. I listed a few things I think you should do, some helpful hints/tips/tricks for getting through this tough time from your older cousin.
1. Find different news sources
Change the channel from Fox News to MSNBC or CNN sometimes. Just for a few minutes. Or forget the talking heads on all the big networks and stick with Reuters or the Associated Press where you will find straight news, no opinions, and is less likely to be construed as “fake news.” You know where else you can find news — on the radio or in print. I know, they still exist. NPR and New York Times are great resources. Read/listen/watch them. I suggest this because you need to figure out your own opinions. Don’t regurgitate Tucker Carlson or your parents. …
Marquette, Michigan
Marquette is a city on the edge. On the edge of Lake Superior. On the edge of the wilderness. On the edge of the country. It’s far north in Michigan, populated by people called Yoopers (we are in the dictionary, look us up) and we tend to sound a little Canadian, eh.
When I lived in Marquette, I lived in a crappy apartment that was on the edge of town. It allowed dogs and had a burn mark in the shape of a cookie sheet on the carpet in the kitchen. Right outside was the bike path. Across the street was a hiking path and the river. Up the street was the lake. In the opposite direction was the busy downtown and campus. The atmosphere is eclectic. Young and college-y with microbreweries and dive bars mixed with old stately homes either carefully restored or split into apartments for the ever-revolving student body. A farmer’s market is in the heart of the downtown area where farmers, chocolatiers, artists, florists, and bakers sell their wares. Musicians play, kids dance, and neighbors chit-chat. …
Before it’s too late — again
The culture I grew up in is so pro-gun, kids get a day off from school for the opening day of hunting season and not Martin Luther King, Jr. Day. I don’t know anyone who doesn’t own, at the very least, a hunting rifle. Gun safety classes are taught to kids on the weekends and kids participate in youth hunts. For my family, venison, the meat from deer, was a cheap source of protein. Hunting season has started in Northern Michigan, my home and the home of the much sought after white-tailed deer, on November 15th. …
Listen to the beat and you won’t go wrong
Any piece of writing advice I can give is to listen to the music in your head.
I’m not talking about Harry Styles’ recent hit or that song that never ends. I’m talking about how your writing sounds. As it’s unraveling in my head, there is a beat, a cadence to it that I try to capture on paper. Anything I write is in service of this internal tune.
I’m not saying write like you speak. Maybe I’m talking about style or voice or even tone. Either way, the “music” in my head informs all of it: style, voice, and tone. What does that voice in your head sound like and how to translate it to the page. For me, it does almost sound like music. There is the rhythm of short sentences paired with long, complex sentences. Using commas to breathe for a second before diving into the rest of the sentence. Exclamation points create a high-pitched flute-like note that shrieks! …
I’ve already failed as an ally, what do I do now?
I am not a good ally. I don’t know how to speak to my family about Black Lives Matter, police brutality, Trump’s dog whistles, even COVID-19. I’ve tried and I usually end up more upset and angry than before the conversation started. And they go about their day, believing their beliefs.
This election has beaten me like no other, feelings I’m sure I share with just about everyone in America. Regardless of the outcome, I’m nervous for the coming holidays. The Trump disinformation machine is going to be a wrecking ball. …
Finding my voice through clothes
I dropped out of my English Master’s program. I packed away my books and notebooks, while drinking a glass of wine and crying. I wondered who would I be now? My eyes fell on a nearby Glamour magazine.
Newly married, living in a new city, and unsure of what I really wanted to do in life, I applied to the nearest Master’s program in English. I got in and immediately felt even more adrift.
Though I loved my classes, they were very stressful. I’m a quiet person until you get to know me or, rather, until I get to know you. I’m a deep thinker and typically not the person with a quick response. Maybe that’s why I’m so drawn to writing; I can think through things before putting it out in the world. And this is what I did in class. I was a sponge absorbing everything to be processed later, but my teachers didn’t see that. In meetings with a particular teacher and even in class emails I was called out for not speaking enough. My feelings of not being enough grew. I stressed over saying anything in class, so instead of focusing in class, I would jump ahead, frantically trying to think of something to say and would miss the actual discussion taking place. …
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